


Cartography

by Drewyth



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arthur Kirkland is a Top, First Time, First Time Bottoming, Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M, One Shot, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 08:53:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17639663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drewyth/pseuds/Drewyth
Summary: 1730s, Pre-Revolution. England spends a passionate night mapping out his colony, America. This translates to mean: England bangs the hell out of America (and yes, England’s the top).





	Cartography

**Author's Note:**

> Basically just 11k+ words of gratuitous USUK smut. I don't see a lot of fics with England as the top so I had to remedy that. This is definitely one of the fluffiest works I'll write for this series so buckle in, friends. Feedback and comments are cherished always <3

America had been strong from the beginning. Even as a child, the sheer force of his power went unrivaled. England had seen him stop horse-drawn carriages with an outstretched arm, toss anvils like they were horseshoes, swing bulls around by the horns, giggling all the while. Settlers came from across the world to witness his strange displays of juvenile might. Of course, the little blonde was always eager to put on a show.

So, yes, America was undoubtedly strong. It was hardly a wonder that he found so many ways to make England weak.

It also shouldn't have surprised England when the young colony's strength culminated in a sudden series of growth spurts. All it had taken was one trip back to Europe, and England found himself returning not to an unruly toddler with an appetite bigger than he was, but to a fully grown, increasingly independent country. And America was _handsome_.

In fact, America proved to be a lot of things. He was stronger than ever. Arrogant, but rightfully so. He was curious, adventurous in ways that drove England mad with worry. He was fascinated by heroes and oceans and flying things. America was summer on a sandy coast, and winter holidays spent cozied up to a fire. But, above all else, England prided himself on knowing that America was _his_.

America didn’t seem to share the sentiment. Once, he’d been dependent, an enthusiastic recipient of England’s spoiling. Now, he wouldn’t even let England brew him a pot of tea.

“I’ve got it!” America’s voice was too mature to sound familiar. He laughed when England startled out of his way, then hoisted a kettle onto the stove on his own.

England watched America move, frowning. For once, he didn’t know what to do with himself. His hands fiddled with his buttons, his tie, until he realized and forced them behind his back. He stood up straight and drew his mouth taut.

“Anyway, how was your trip?” America sprawled in his kitchen chair with such ease, England felt his own muscles slacken. This was still America, he reminded himself, still his America. He was just taller, broader. His smile, though, was as disarming as it had always been. “Bring me back anything?”

England raised his eyes from where they had caught on America’s hands. _Huge_. “Ah, yes. A bit of advice.” He retrieved a fresh rag from the cupboard. “Lift your shoes.”

“Aw, come on. I’m in my own home and—Hey!”

England hauled America’s feet up off the kitchen table. He had to use both his arms. He folded his cloth over the wood where they’d rested. “There you go. You may put them back now.”

America didn’t. He smirked instead, crossing his arms as he propped his chair back on two legs. “You didn’t get me anything else? A painting or something I can hang up?”

England’s fingers twitched over his jacket pocket. Of course he’d gotten something. Only… “Well, it feels foolish now.”

“What? No way. Gifts are never foolish.” America shot out of his chair. His smile grew brighter, if that was possible. England had to tilt his head back slightly to examine it. He’d preferred it when America had been sitting, shorter than him. “So, what is it? Show me. Come on.”

“Well… Alright. Alright, yes, fine.” England’s hand dipped into his pocket. It curled around a small wooden figure. He held his breath. Nodded. “Close your eyes then.”

“They’re closed.”

“And no peeking.”

“They’re _super_ closed.”

Once England verified that the other boy’s eyes were, in fact, _super_ closed, he fished out the gift. A hand-carved soldier rested light in his palm. He caressed its rosy cheek with the pad of his thumb, traced the rigid structure of its red coat. He’d gotten it under the assumption that America would still be young enough for toys, when he returned. He couldn’t have known… His eyes cast to the young adult towering before him. Really, he should return this little souvenir. Bring him something else, something befitting a young man. It was stupid, the present he held now, with its stupid painted smile, and the stupid heart carved into its stupid base. His fist clenched around it. _Ridiculous_.

“England, you gonna hand it—Whoa, hey!”

England snapped to attention too late. America tore the little solider from his hand before he could form a proper explanation. He tried anyway. “Now—One moment. Let me just say… Ah. To be fair…”

“I love it!” America laughed and, on reflex, England’s shoulders tensed. Then he remembered: _He isn’t France, you know. He isn’t laughing_ at _you._ He relaxed, just a bit, and watched America whirl around the room. “This is so cool. Shit! The paint’s bright too. Must be a new formula they’re using or something. Man… I gotta put it up somewhere.”

England blinked. “You really do like it?”

“Duh. I said so, didn’t I?”

“You’re not…” He shifted, folding his hands behind his back. “You aren’t only saying that to appease me?”

“England, when have I ever lied to spare _your_ feelings?” America beamed. He was right, England realized. If America didn’t like something… Well, God save the king if _America_ was ever displeased. If there was one thing England hoped he _did_ outgrow, it was the tantrums. He blew out a breath.

“Well.” A small smile settled on his lips. “I’m glad.”

“Hell yeah! Hm. Now…” Blue eyes scanned the room, suddenly calculating. England had seen that look on him before, when he’d been learning the difference between consonants and vowels. Now, he knew America was imagining that little soldier in every space in the room, seeking out the perfect home. He drifted toward a shelf stacked with dishes. “I think—”

“You know where it would look quite nice?” England reached for the toy. He froze when America snatched it away. His fingers twitched around nothing. He looked to America with an expression that he hoped reflected more confusion than the other emotion he felt. _Betrayal._

“Hey, I can do it.” America ducked his head into England’s line of sight and arched a brow. He was smirking again. “I can take care of it, okay?”

England swallowed his shock. “Right.”

He gestured openly to the kitchen. While America continued searching, England lowered himself into a seat and crossed one leg over the other. He observed as America buzzed about, placing the soldier here and there before shaking his head, muttering a “Nah,” and looking for a new spot. He bit his tongue to keep from offering suggestions. Even if they were very _good_ suggestions. His gaze settled on the purring kettle.

“Perfect.”

England narrowed his eyes at the spot America had chosen: A wooden shelf that washed the soldier out completely. And, what was more, the little figurine was standing at a crooked angle. Certainly _not_ perfect. He snorted to himself but said nothing more.

“Hey, did you get to see one of those flying shuttles that John guy made?” America cocked his head. “I’m gonna make something even better. Something that can help actual _people_ fly.”

“The fly-shuttle does not _fly_ , America.” England sighed. “It’s a textile device. For a loom. It helps with weaving. The ‘wheeled shuttle,’ he calls it.”

“Well, shoot, if I’d known that’s what it was called, I wouldn’t have been so confused. Weaving isn’t nearly as exciting as flying. Why is everyone getting the two mixed up?”

England opened his mouth to reply. He spotted a frayed thread on America’s sleeve and shut his mouth again. He leaned forward to catch the string, but America noticed and plucked it first, waving him away. He sat back stiffly.

“Are you embarrassed?” he asked. He’d been aiming for bluntness, but he only sounded disappointed. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Me helping you with things, does it embarrass you now?”

“I mean… I don’t know. I’m just kinda doing my own thing these days.” America shrugged. “I don’t need you as much as I used to.”

England’s heart dropped. He made a noise in the back of his throat. It must have sounded despairing, because America rushed to reassure him.

“I mean, I don’t need _help_ as much as I used to. I want you around. Obviously.” He flashed a smile. “Isn’t it better this way anyway? You get to visit me like any other guest would, and you don’t have to worry about taking care of me and stuff. We can just hang out, have a good time. No responsibilities, you know?”

 _You were the happiest responsibility I ever had._ England’s eyes slid to where his hand rested on the table. He noticed scuffmarks in the wood but couldn’t even manage crinkling his nose. “You really can do everything yourself now.”

“Mm yeah, pretty much. Except self-govern, apparently.”

England’s head shot up. America raised a hand just as quickly. He had that mischievous look back in his eye.

“Joking. I’m joking. Ol’ George ain’t so bad.”

“Ah…” England steadied his breath. He watched America straddle the chair beside him. His legs were long, and his pants might have looked longer had they actually been _ironed_. Oh, but he supposed America didn’t need him to help with that either. He wouldn’t need help combing his hair or patching scraped knees or falling asleep to a fairytale.

England watched his not-so-little colony laugh at something he’d missed. He admired the boy’s dimples, the wild lock of hair that curled back from his face as though self-possessed. He picked up on new habits, like how America restlessly rubbed his own knee while he spoke. He noticed America run his fingers through his hair, tugging slightly now and then. He wasn’t stressed, England surmised, he must just enjoy the feel of it. England turned to face him fully. Realization settled warm in his chest.

There was still something England could do for him, that America could not do for himself.

“America…” England spoke softly, so when America’s attention came to him, it was undivided.

“Yeah? What’s up?”

His fingertips touched to the ends of America’s hair. Its strands were as soft as he recalled, blazing under the midafternoon sun. “I’ve missed you sorely.”

“Oh. Yeah, well.” America grinned and glanced at the stove, distracted by the soft puffing of the kettle. “You’re here now, so that’s good.”

“Yes. That is good.” His fingers pushed in deeper. America drew a sudden breath. His eyes returned to England’s, now sharply aware of his touch. His lips parted, just slightly, and it took all England’s strength to keep from fixating on them instead. “I feel like I’ve lost so many important moments with you.”

America scoffed. He shifted forward anyway, leaning an elbow on his knee. He had a glimmer in his eye, like he was about to offer a sales pitch. Whatever he was selling, England was certain he’d buy. “Guess you’ll have to start catching up.”

America held his gaze with an intensity all his own. Something shifted in the air around them. England paused, reeled into the depths of those ocean eyes. Then, he scrubbed his hand back over America’s scalp. When he reached the base of his skull, he spread his fingers, and returned to smooth the strands off his temple.

“I am so very proud of you.” England tipped his head forward so their noses nearly touched. “But you must know that I worry too. Once you get this big…people notice you. There are aggressors. Invaders. I _hate_ the thought of anyone else touching you.” He tried to keep the venom from his voice. Failed. He sighed and rubbed circles behind America’s ear. “What am I to do if someone threatens you? Why… I rather think I’d lose my head. Or someone else would.”

“Ha…” America turned his face away, even as his head bowed into the touch. “Well, I'm figurin’ it all out. I've made it this far, y’know?”

“Pity you've had to do it without a guide.” England carded his nails through that golden hair, traced the delicate curve of America’s ear. His heart swelled when America shivered. He traced it again. “I must have been gone longer than I thought. You've grown so much.” England swallowed and added a quiet, “Without me.”

America gave a half-hearted shrug, a lopsided smile. “You weren't gone that long. I just grew up fast. Nothing you could have done about it.”

England's hand stilled in America's hair and he searched his face, curious. Not for the first time, he noticed the spray of freckles dotting an upturned nose. His jaw was broad, and a cleft appeared in his cheek when he smiled. His hair still splayed across his face, untamed, and his eyes still burned with a youthful passion, but all other hints of childhood had gone. If England had not cared for him so closely, he might have doubted those years had happened at all. His other hand moved to cradle America's face and, briefly, he closed his eyes.

“You've grown, and you've become so, _so_ beautiful.”

“Always been beautiful.”

England snorted, and his eyes opened on a gaze brighter than a cloudless sky. He held it, weighing his next words. His tongue came out to dampen dry lips. Then, with a gentle squeeze of his hands, he said, “Let me take care of you.”

America grinned. He seemed to find something funny. England didn't. “You've been taking care of me forever—”

“No.” Green eyes bore into a tide of blue. “I want you to give yourself to me. All of you. I want to make up for my absence. I want to give you everything, and I want to have everything of yours in return.”

America breathed a laugh. “That's, uh, pretty intense.” He almost kept speaking, paused, and shrugged instead. England withdrew his touch.

“This is not something I'll do without explicit permission,” England said, firm. “You're new to me now. The same America I always loved, and yet, you're different in every way. I… I want to reacquaint myself with you. To touch you until every caress feels familiar, and every gasp sounds like home. But only if you want it too.” His eyes flicked from one of America's, to the other, and back. “Will you let me?”

England watched as America watched him. Something pensive churned behind blue eyes, his lips flushed with thought. Then, he leaned forward and pressed a small kiss to the corner of England's mouth. “This really means a lot to you, huh?”

“You mean a lot to me.” A beat, and then England corrected himself. “You mean the world to me. And so, I want to show you. What it feels like to be the center of someone’s world.”

America nodded. He seemed uncertain as to what, precisely, he was responding to. When England arched a brow, he clarified. “Yeah… Yeah, I think I'd like that.”

England's heart leapt. It seemed to surge up toward America, scrambling to claim him. _His_. He pressed a hand over his chest to calm it. His other hand reached to cup America's chin.

“First things first then: A little kiss like that won't do.” England tilted America's chin back. Standing, it would have made his mouth harder to reach. Sitting, it made no matter. Besides, he’d been waiting for this moment, and one freak height difference would not deter him.

England leaned in. His lips brushed America's. The contact was light, but heat crept under his ribs all the same. America shifted, tried to push closer, but England held his chin in place. His lips parted, tracing America's own. A long breath tickled him when America followed his lead. The younger boy moved slowly, exploring each movement, and England smiled against his skin. He sketched a trail from America's jaw, to the space behind his ear, and his hand settled there. Their breaths mingled, light pulses of air. His eyes felt heavy and, when he noticed America's had fluttered shut, he closed his as well.

Here in a blind dark, he was surrounded by sensation. The warmth of America's skin beneath his touch. The rush of breath upon his cheek. The way America's hand hovered between his shoulder and his waist, uncertain where to land. And, of course, the triumph of having America, _his America_ , in his hold. His mind slipped into bliss.

America was the first to introduce tongue. It nudged along England's bottom lip, and his heart jolted once, hard. He allowed his own to flick along the edges of America's mouth, but he retreated each time America tried to push deeper. At last, he twined his fingers in America’s hair, led him in, and locked their lips together. He pulled back slowly, letting his breath gust along the ridge of America’s jaw, to his ear. America shivered.

“Wait, I'm...confused.” America untangled himself to adjust his collar. A crooked smile crossed his face. All at once, he looked young again, sheepish. “I thought we were…”

England hummed. He pushed a strand of hair behind America's ear, knowing fully well it would fall right back out of place. “Not that fast. You do everything so fast, sparrow. Besides—”

A shrill whistle split the air. America startled. “ _Shit._ ”

England tilted his head toward the stove. “Ah. There it is. Did you jump?”

“Just to get up and grab it,” America said, and staggered out of his seat with a curse.

“Well, this is perfect.” England clasped his hands to keep them from itching to assist. “Now we can take our tea to the sitting room. Get a bit comfier. A bit warmer.”

“Yeah, yeah,” America said absently. He’d uncovered the kettle for _some_ ungodly reason, and his attention was snagged by the steam billowing around him. He coughed and waved at it. “Did you want any sugar?”

“My, I don’t think you can find the bowl in this cloud.” England smiled to himself. He slipped from his seat, lingering far enough from America to allow him space, but close enough to sate his own desire for proximity. “May I?”

America hesitated, cast a forlorn look to the steaming kettle, then pushed it toward him. “Meh, go for it. I gotta clean up the living room anyway.”

England noticed how America didn’t meet his eyes as he left. No, he _avoided_ his eyes. Could it be that his brazen colony was feeling bashful? England smirked into the steam rising around him. None of it felt as hot as America’s skin had been. And he’d only tasted the barest hint of it. He raised his brows at the thought. He ought to get to work. Right. He set aside the kettle and began to search the cupboards.

In the end, England presented their tea in a pair of coffee mugs. America had no reliable tea set—A realization that nearly sent England into fits. He would just have to bring him one the next time he visited. _Soon_.

“Here you are.” England nearly set the mug down, but America took it too quickly. A glance at the sitting room table revealed no coasters. Perhaps America didn’t want him to set the cup down for fear that it would stain the wood. But, considering this was _America_ , he doubted it. “Careful, now. It’s very hot.”

“You put sugar in it?”

“Six lumps, yes.” England sighed as he crossed his legs beneath him on the sofa. “For once, I hope that I was wrong, and that you’ve grown out of your unhealthy palate.” He looked to America, who was already downing half his drink. England sighed. “Ah. No such luck.”

“Holy fuck, that’s hot.” America’s mug clattered onto the table, dribbling spots of tea. England shook his head, produced a handkerchief from his pocket, and soaked it up. He set both cups on it after.

“I told you.” He rolled his eyes with his next words, so they might pass as sarcasm, “Though, here I hoped you’d be saying that about me.”

America grinned at that. Whether he thought it was humorous or charming, England didn’t want to know. He maintained his serenity all the same. He sipped his tea and then, after a beat, said, “You like your hair being touched.”

America snorted. “I guess. Just as much as anyone else, probably.”

“No. You like it a lot. Watch.”

The tips of his fingers grazed America’s temple. He ruffled them back through silken locks, trailing up around America’s ear, then down to the nape of his neck. He repeated the gesture, this time with nails, and watched as America’s hand tightened around the handle of his mug. When he reached America’s neck the second time, he scraped his nails _up_ through the hair there, pleased when America’s head tilted into it.

“It’s…nice,” America admitted. He shrugged to make the comment seem flippant, but England knew better. He raked his fingers up again and America closed his eyes. “Feel like a dog or somethin’.”

“Not a dog.” England smiled to himself. _Just my little pet_. He dared not say it out loud.

This time, when his fingers spread at the base of America’s skull, England pressed him in close. America didn’t open his eyes, not until England’s breath touched his lips, and by then it was too late for England to hold his gaze. He was already leaning in, already taking America’s lips in his own.

A languid rhythm started between them. England led the kiss, lips rubbing slow against the other’s. He guided America’s head with the hand in his hair, dragged him close, sucking lightly at his bottom lip. Then, he pulled him back again before he could react. It was a game he maintained, urging America in, kissing him deep, retreating with a slow curl of the tongue.

Finally, America made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. England felt America’s leg tense where his hand rested on his thigh, and he knew he was going to try to move, to gain the upper hand. So, when America pushed his tongue forward, England’s mouth opened to receive it. He caught America between his teeth and sucked. He bit down, once, then stroked his own tongue over America’s in apology. A hand on either side of America’s face anchored him, and England pulled back.

“Behave,” he said, voice thick. His eyes stayed closed as he leaned their foreheads together. “Open your mouth.”

“Ha, wh…” America trailed off on a breath. “Yeah, I tried to do that. You bit me.”

“Bullocks. I did not bite you.” He tilted his head, so his next words rolled down the crook of America’s neck. “I could, though.”

Goosebumps scattered over America’s skin and England kissed the turn of his jaw, pleased. His mouth pushed to America’s ear.

“Now, _open your mouth_.” He placed each word with firm precision. America’s jaw worked a moment, chewing on the command. Then, he licked his lips and they parted. England shook his head and demonstrated himself. “More. Ah.”

America exhaled another laugh. His mouth widened on a weak, “Ah.”

“Good,” England purred. He sketched his nails over America’s cheek.

He moved in and his tongue slid hot against America’s own. He licked at the hard ridges of America’s teeth, rolled his tongue over the roof of his mouth. His heart skipped feverishly, but he urged it to calm. This wasn’t about him, or his exploration and _claiming_ of America’s mouth. This was about America, and the muffled little noise he made when England’s tongue plunged _deeper_. It was about the way America’s arms stiffened, corded with lean muscle and restrained strength. It was about the way his tongue chased England’s, even as England withdrew entirely. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. England smirked, and America closed his mouth just as quickly. A rosy flush colored his cheeks.

“Hey…” America searched his eyes, blinking to clear his vision. His tongue ran absently over his bottom lip and England’s heart jumped. He knew America was tasting him. He wanted more of him.

“Hey,” England offered back when America didn’t seem inclined to continue. He glanced at the stairs. “Show me to your room. I want to make you comfortable.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s true.”

England arched a brow. His eyes trailed to America’s belt, even as he asked, “Why ever not?”

America didn’t respond. He just smiled and stumbled over the low table in his haste to stand. He held out a hand once he steadied himself. “Let’s head up. I don’t think I showed you ‘round the whole place yet.”

England’s eyes roved over America. He examined wide shoulders, the narrow musculature of his waist, the openness of his stance. He hadn’t seen the whole place yet. But then, he hadn’t seen all of _America_ yet either. So, wasn’t it fitting? He could finish his tour of the house in the same room where he’d finish his tour of America’s body. At last, his eyes fell to the palm stretched toward him. He stood, closed his own hand over it, and led the way upstairs.

“I haven’t done a _ton_ of cleaning up the place since you’ve been gone, I won’t lie.” America spoke to hear himself speak. He filled the silence with humor because, otherwise, the weight of it would make him _aware_. And heaven forbid America not be positively oblivious to everything he experienced.

England wouldn’t let him be oblivious. Not in this. Not tonight. It would be quite the challenge, he thought, dragging America back down to him whenever his focus began to slip. England loved an occasional challenge. They kept him sharp.

He stopped outside of a shoddy wooden door. The frame splintered in places from rough usage. The boy didn’t know his own strength. England nodded toward the door, interrupting something America was saying with, “This is your bedroom, I presume?”

“You presume right, yeah. Here, let me.” He tried to shuffle ahead in the narrow hallway, reaching toward the knob. England twisted it open first. If America was afraid of him seeing something inside, why, he should have picked it up beforehand. England did a quick pass of the room. Admittedly, he was searching for unconcealed secrets. When he spotted none, he stepped inside, beckoned for America to follow.

“This is a nice little setup you have,” he offered, gesturing to the rustic interior. “Cozy.”

America’s room was quite minimalist, in truth. Wooden shelves hung on the walls. Most were empty, others displayed little awards and knickknacks. England’s spirits soared when he noticed some were from him. A four-post bed faced an unlit hearth. Beside that, a neglected lantern threatened to gutter. England fished through his pockets for a match, struck it, and stoked the fire back to life.

“I see you’ve kept my quilt,” England said. He perched carefully beside the crumpled blanket, tracing the embroidery he’d done so many years ago. A little chuckle passed his lips. “It must be too small for you now.”

A weight appeared at England’s side, sinking into the mattress. “Eh. It’s sentimental. Or whatever.” America touched the quilt, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. His eyes kept drifting back to England’s hands and, once, his lips. The latter curled into a smirk, and America pretended not to notice.

“Take off your shirt.” England stood, dusting clean hands against his pants.

“Wait,” America swiveled around to watch him. “What are you up to?”

“Trust, America.” He quirked a brow and began skimming the room for something. “Go on, now. Take off your shirt for me.”

“I mean, yeah, okay. It’s a pretty sight, so I get it.” America drew his shirt up over his head. England stopped to watch tightly corded muscle ripple and shift beneath sun-kissed skin. America rucked up his hair in the process and, now, he looked a wild thing. His shirt crumpled to the floor and he looked to England expectantly. _Delicious._ “What now?”

“Do you have any scented oils?”

“Isn’t that the stuff China and Egypt are always using?” America nudged his shirt under the bed along with, England assumed, the rest of his laundry. “Why would I have those?”

“So you don’t _smell_. Honestly, America, take care of yourself. And the noses of everyone around you.” England considered. Then, his eyes caught on a bottle shoved under the nightstand. “Ah. So, we’ll improvise.”

“I don’t smell,” America said, and sniffed himself to prove it. Except he _did_ smell. Like fresh soap and sunlight and a hint of natural wood. England couldn’t forget that scent. “Besides… Hey. Don’t go through my shit. What—”

“I can only imagine what you use this for.” England shook the little bottle of vegetable oil. “I don’t assume you’re doing much cooking in your bedroom, after all.”

“I brought it up in the middle of the night. It was dark, and I thought it was my water jug. Anyway, what’s it matter?”

“Horseshit. You wouldn’t walk around your dark house in the middle of the night without a candle. I know you, America. I’ve known you since before you’d even figured out yourself. You can’t lie to me.” England shifted the bottle from one hand to the other. America’s eyes followed it. It was all the confession England needed; they both knew what it was for. “Lie down.”

“Just…?” America backed cautiously onto his elbows.

“On your front, you bleeding dunce.” He set to rolling up his sleeves, creasing them evenly at each turn. “Sometime today, preferably.”

America mumbled something but rolled onto his stomach as instructed. He tucked his arms beneath his head, looked over his shoulder. “What are you thinkin’ about?”

“I’m thinking I might have to stuff a sock in your mouth if you keep questioning every move I make before I’ve even made it.” England set the bottle on the bedside table. Then, before America could question further, he climbed up to straddle the backs of America’s hips. America’s muscles twitched beneath him.

“What’re you…?” America nearly asked, then shut his mouth. England smiled at the silence. _Good_.

He took the opportunity to study America’s back: The everlasting tan, the dimples in his shoulders, the smooth dip trailing past the waistband of his pants. He touched his fingers to that ridge and America’s muscles jumped again. England smoothed away the tension with a hum.

“Relax,” he instructed, and, with a sigh, America did. That blonde head settled in the crook of his arm. England took that as a cue to continue.

His fingertips traced circles into the broad expanse of skin before him. He ran his hands up to America’s shoulders, watched as the boy’s arms shifted under the touch. Then, his fingers sketched down to the small of his back, raising a trail of gooseflesh in their wake. He scraped his nails outward, toward America’s sides, and paused at the throaty exhale.

“Ticklish,” America explained.

“Ah,” England said, and ghosted his fingers up the sides of his body once more.

He moved slowly, exploring the curves of tight musculature. His skin grazed America’s hips, his waist, and America’s back arched. England kept going. Up over America’s sides, to his ribs, higher. When he reached the soft hollow under America’s arms, laughter erupted into the mattress. England couldn’t suppress a smile of his own.

“Still ticklish?”

“Mmyeah,” America mumbled. He tried looking over his shoulder but couldn’t see far enough behind him. He settled back down. “Stop that.”

England breathed a chuckle, traced his fingers over America’s sides one last time, then rubbed away the prickling of his skin with firm hands. He worked his palms over to America’s shoulders, massaging circles into the muscle there. Instead of laughter, England caught hold of a small groan. He kneaded harder, finding knots of exertion and working to unravel them. Another sigh broke on America’s lips.

“Needed this.” America’s voice was thick, and that alone turned England’s blood to fire. America _needed_ this. Needed _him_.

“Oh, I _know_.” He ground his palms down lower, rolling them over cords of tension. America muffled another sound. “You’ve been working hard, haven’t you? Always so diligent, when you aren’t causing mischief.”

“And just what’re…” America grunted at the knuckles kneading into his lower back. “What’re _you_ doing right now?”

“Causing mischief,” England admitted with a shrug. His touch turned light again, and he skirted it up the back of America’s neck. America’s head tilted back on reflex. A visible shiver danced down his spine. England watched it go all the way down. “But you like getting into trouble, so this is nothing new for you.”

“Oh, I’m in trouble?” America laughed, tried to turn his head again, but gave up halfway through. He shivered at another pass of England’s nails. “So, what, you’re gonna scold me like you love to do so much?”

“No, no.” England plucked the bottle from the nightstand and uncapped it. He saw the exact moment America realized, because the boy stiffened beneath him. “You’re grown. I think it’s only fitting that your punishments reflect that, don’t you?”

England tilted the bottle. A splash of oil landed on America’s back, splattered. America’s breath hitched. England’s stomach tightened. He _loved_ that sound.

“Kinda cold,” America told him.

“That’s your punishment then. Now, may I get back to spoiling you?”

America laughed again, weakly. His breath shifted, like he was preparing to say something, but England’s touch melted his words into a sigh. Satisfied, England rubbed slick hands over America’s skin. They glided from his loin muscles, around his shoulder blades, up to the nape of his neck. His own shoulders worked to knead away the strain. America’s breathing slowed while he worked. Every so often, it caught in his throat, and England chose to keep rubbing at the spot that caused that reaction. America became his clay, moldable by his hands alone. And, _god_ , he could really spend his whole night doing this. Just this.

But, now, America’s hips were shifting against the mattress. Squirming, only slightly. Anticipation crackled visibly beneath his skin. England slid his hands up his back, and down. Up, and down. Then, he leaned forward, and spoke into America’s ear.

“Roll over.”

He managed to move out of the way just before America’s head snapped back. A shudder ran through the colony. He laughed it off. “Get off me then.”

England shifted onto the edge of the bed. America pulled himself onto an elbow, his movements drugged by sensation. Oil glistened on his skin and, while it may have been cold initially, the wet felt warm on England’s hands now. America paused on his knees.

“Do I gotta?”

England’s brow quirked. He rubbed his hands together to soak up some of the oil. He waited for clarification.

“I mean… I’m comfy how I am.” America dropped onto his stomach, flashed a grin over his shoulder. “Like this.”

“On your back, you arse.” England moved to make room for him. Then his eyes returned to America’s pants and knowingness sparked. “Unless there’s something you don’t want me to see.” He shrugged. “I’d say ‘something you don’t want me to know about,’ but I already _know_ about it.”

“Know about what?” America said, and the crack in his voice reminded England that there was still so much inexperience in him. Still, he didn’t dignify the feigned oblivion with a response. America sighed and, very carefully, moved onto his back. His knees raised to block his lower body from sight. England knew anyway.

“One little massage got you all riled up?” England shoved his knees down before he could answer. He raised a brow at the strain against America’s belt. “Do want me to undo it?”

“What?”

“Your belt.”

“Oh. I dunno.”

England shrugged again. He left the belt as it was and resumed his position on America’s hips. This time, a weight poked into the back of his thigh and America sucked down a breath.

“Relax,” England reminded him. He rested the tips of his fingers on a point beneath America’s ribs. Watched the slow draw of his breath. He spread his fingers, watching them creep in different directions as the muscles beneath them jerked. He did it again, and the muscles clenched once more. America laughed softly.

“I’m not doing that on purpose.” He propped his head up to watch his own muscles twitch and shift under England’s command.

“How embarrassing.”

He sketched a jerky line up America’s chest, down the lines of his abs. When he caressed the ridged V disappearing behind America’s waistband, the boy’s hips jerked. England nearly lost his seating. He readjusted himself, very obviously, over the shape pressing into his backside. America’s exhale was sharp.

“You’re ticklish here?” England stroked America’s sides, just beneath his ribs. America tried to shift out of the way but, pinned, he couldn’t get far.

“Hey.” America’s eyes were pleading, even as he grinned, and England felt _hungry_ for that look. He stroked the same place, watched as America twitched. “Hey, why don’t you…not do that? How about that?”

“No?” His palms rubbed firm trails up America’s sides. His fingers skirted over, around America’s nipples, smearing what little oil was left on them. The small pink buds shone wet with gloss. America’s chest stuttered over his next breath. “How about this then?”

“Huh… Okay.”

England tweaked lightly at the sensitive skin. Already, it was hard. He circled the pad of his thumb over one nipple, rubbed a palm over the other, and America’s breath caught. He expelled that air all at once when England squeezed his thumb and forefinger. He plucked at him, like the strings of a lute, and the little shifts in America’s breathing were his music. When he scraped a nail over the rosy flesh, America gasped.

“I suppose you like that.” England pinched both nipples now, amused by the way America tightened his jaw to hold in the sound. “You really should start telling me.”

His fingers climbed America’s neck, eliciting a shiver. They continued on over his jaw, brushed his ear, and then settled on his temple. His thumb traced America’s brow, over and over, smoothing fine hairs. Like this, twisting and shifting beneath him, his America was divine.

“You like those?” America grinned, indicating his eyebrows. “That’s what they feel like when they’re not thick as two hibernating grizzlies.”

England felt his own heavy brows furrow, unamused. “Yes, well, they’re not the thickest part of me.”

America’s brows shot up. Before he could speak, England pinched one of his nipples, and his rebuttal turned to a gasp. He cupped his other hand around America’s jaw, studied his face. A faint red flush crawled beneath America’s skin. It stained his cheeks red. Painted his lips a shade darker. England wanted to taste them. He leaned down.

“Whenever I say your name, you’re going to tell me how I’m making you feel.” He nudged America’s knees apart and settled in between them. “Do you understand?”

“What’s not to understand?” America grinned, and something hot flared in the pit of England’s stomach. He moved in closer, until the badges on his uniform pressed to America’s skin. America tensed, relaxed. England kissed the underside of his jaw.

“America?”

“Yeah?”

England shot him a look. Realization sparked behind his eyes.

“ _Oh_. Well, uh.” He shifted. England circled his nipple with a nail, waiting. “You’re making me feel… A little bit like you should unbuckle that belt.”

“Hm…” England hummed against his neck, watching the thrum of vibrations move along his skin. “Good to know.”

He didn’t unfasten the belt. Not yet. _Consider it punishment for the eyebrow comment_ , was the silent understanding between them. Instead, he worked his hands up America’s sides, and down, and up again. He watched America’s face, the way his eyes darted over his own torso, unsure of where to look. Those fair brows were knotted up high in a blend of anticipation and concentration. Only, he was concentrating on the wrong spot. He didn’t see England coming.

“Oh—” America twisted when England’s teeth grazed his jaw. England chuckled, kissed the spot to apologize for the surprise. He kissed it a few more times, feeling the flush of America’s skin against his lips, the little bob of his throat when he swallowed. He kissed his chin next, then his bottom lip, then his mouth closed over America’s entirely.

His tongue slid hot over America’s own. It pushed into the back of his mouth, curled forward, edged in deeper, and zigzagged out again. Each time their mouths parted, England heard America’s breaths pick up. Each inhale tumbled over the next, every exhale cut short by another swipe of the tongue. When England broke away the last time, America’s breath sounded on a half-formed word.

“What’s that?” England asked. He let his lips brush against America’s neck. His breath crawled over the skin there, and America tried unsuccessfully to shy away from it. Stuck, he tilted his chin back, welcoming the contact with a shuddering breath. England hummed. His tongue trailed along the join of America’s shoulder. He bit down, sparking nerves. America’s breath hitched, and England was flooded by the warmth of that noise.

“You know, I…” America’s voice sounded thin. He shifted and tried again. “I haven’t like…” He closed his eyes a moment. Caught his breath. It whispered out of him in a chuckle. “I’ve never, like. You know…”

“Oh, thank the good Catholic Christ.” England’s voice sounded rough in his own ears. He nipped at America’s, and the colony took a jerky inhale. “I prayed I’d get to you first.”

The kisses fell lower, after that. England pushed his hips forward, felt the strain of America’s body against the front of his pants, and it only made him want to work slower. Eager to draw this out even more. He dragged his lips over the harsh cut of America’s jaw, the curve of his throat, the high ridge of his collar. He scraped his teeth over his clavicle, bit down, and America hissed a breath.

“America.”

“What?”

 _Forgot again_. England pressed his palm to America’s cheek. His thumb toyed with his bottom lip, even as England’s mouth traveled down. His lip grazed the pink swell of America’s chest. America shifted, but England followed the movement, flicking his tongue over America’s nipple. There was a sharp inhale. He did it again.

“America,” he pressed. His mouth closed over the sensitive skin and sucked. A high vocalization fled America’s lips. England sucked again, lightly, letting his teeth graze the area. America rolled his body up into the sensation.

“Oh, yeah, right,” America said between breaths. “It feels… I like that. It’s…sensitive. Yeah.”

England acknowledged him with a hum. He could feel blue eyes watching him, feel his breathing accelerate. He kissed his way to America’s other nipple, traced it with the tip of his tongue. He sucked there too, dragged his tongue back and forth over tender flesh. His teeth closed around the stiff tip of him and he nibbled experimentally. A low sound clawed its way up the back of America’s throat. England sucked again, hard, at the same time he plucked his mouth away. America closed his teeth around his next noise. Disappointing, but England knew there’d be plenty more.

His head dipped lower. He trailed his tongue over the grooves of his ribs. America squirmed under his mouth. Air gusted from his nose, closer to laughter than pleasure. _Ticklish_. Well, England knew what to replace a feeling like _that_ with. He sealed his mouth over one of America’s ribs and bit down.

“ _Ah_.” America bit his own lip to smother the sound.

England glanced up. “Too much?”

“No.” Pleasure threaded through America’s features. England wished he’d look at him, but his eyes were squeezed shut. His lower lip trembled, just for a second. “Do it again.”

England obeyed. He bit down, harder this time, and America yelped, louder. When England chased the bite with a swipe of the tongue, he felt the ridged mark his teeth had left behind. He smoothed them away and moved lower.

His fingers skirted around America’s hips, over his sides, and he peppered kisses in their wake. When his mouth met the bony jut of America’s hip, he clamped his teeth around it. America groaned. It was a predictable outcome, but it still sent heat rippling through England’s veins. He nibbled a moment, then descended further.

His lips painted light strokes against America’s underbelly. He dragged them over the crease of his hips, watched America’s muscles leap. Then, when America had forced himself to relax, England surprised him with a scrape of his teeth, and his muscles jerked again. His hands fixed over America’s belt and America pushed himself onto his elbows, alert.

“You wanted this off?” England tugged at the leather. America’s hips shifted backward, away from the touch. _As though I don’t already know you’re hard as sheetrock._ England resisted rolling his eyes. “Well?”

“Yeah.” America’s voice was strained. He started to say something else, then slumped back down into the pillows. His hand stroked absently at his own hair. “Gettin’ to be, uh, sorta a tight fit down there.”

“Looks like it.”

He unfastened America’s belt with a clinking of metal. Then, his hands started working at the fixings on America’s pants. He was right; they _were_ too tight, and the strain against the fabric had to be uncomfortable. A breath fled him when he tugged away the fabric to reveal brightly colored undergarments. Even those fit too tightly. He tossed the pants carelessly aside; America would just end up kicking them under the bed anyway.

America was hard. One layer of clothing scarcely concealed that fact. A visible outline weighed heavy in England’s sights. For a moment, his breath stopped. _This is happening_ , he realized all over again, and his heart picked up its pace. Still, he treaded slowly. He dragged his fingers over the back of America’s knee. His leg twitched out of the way, and England followed it, tracing the inside of his thigh next. A soft huff of breath, a jerk of the hips, let him know to do it again.

“America?” England brought his lips to America’s inner thigh. His breath ghosted along the skin and, again, America rolled his hips out of the way. England’s hands fastened over those hips to keep them still. He kissed the join of America’s hip and leg. The shape of him grazed England’s cheek, so he turned to kiss that too. America whimpered.

“Driving me crazy.” America made a strangled sound that might have been laughter. His head tilted back on the pillow and he made a sound of frustration. “You really gotta draw this whole thing—”

England sucked him through the fabric. America gasped wetly, and it made England aware of something he’d ignored until now: He was _embarrassingly_ hard. He made it a point to focus on something else. His mouth opened over the heat of America’s body. He dragged his tongue over his clothed length. America bit back another shuddering sound.

“Hey.” America’s voice sounded as an intake of air. He twisted his hips away from another kiss, but England caught him anyway, and America exhaled hard. “Hey, hey. This… This ain’t fair. You still got clothes on.”

England arched a brow up at the boy, noticed him shiver under the look. Ah, but there was America: Always so obsessed with the idea of fairness, _justice_. He couldn’t shed that even now, England supposed. He sat up on his knees.

“Your hair’s a mess,” America pointed out with a shaky grin.

“Your body’s a mess.” As proof, England scored his nails up America’s side, and America squirmed. He ruffled his own hair back then, a wild mane of blonde. He never could tame it, even when all the rest of him appeared so immaculate. He sighed, shrugged off his overcoat, and set to folding it.

“Are you kidding me?” America looked up at the ceiling. His face was flushed red, his muscles twitching and jerking any time England’s clothing grazed his skin. He curled his arms over his chest as though to protect him from some sensory overload. His eyes brightened when England finally laid his jacket over the bed frame.

Then, England started with the buttons on his shirt.

“You’re—Ha. You’re seriously doing this right now. I’m like… Every little breeze is getting me wired up and you…” America wriggled on the bed. His heel ground into the mattress, legs shifting as though they wanted to close. Of course, with England between them, they couldn’t. America slumped, helpless. “ _England_.”

England’s pulse spiked. _There_. It was the way he said his name, the raw _need_ in his tone that snapped England’s attention back to him. America wanted him. Bad. He couldn’t ignore that plea.

England clambered back over America’s body. An arm braced itself on either side of America’s head as he bore down on him. His hips rolled against America’s first, then he pressed their chests close together. Their hearts hammered into one another, skipping and stuttering over their beats. England met America’s eyes and knew he must look ravenous. America searched his face in turn, mouth moving over silent syllables. England didn’t need him to speak. He pushed in close and kissed him deep.

America’s mouth opened under his. He thrust his tongue inside, hungry. His kisses earlier had been restrained, tame. Now, they were about taking. Claiming. England swallowed every muffled grunt and whine America made. They were delicious. He needed _more_. His hand shoved past America’s waistband, just as America’s fingers curled into his shoulders.

“Mmph,” was all America could manage, but a tug on England’s collar got the point across. England wrestled his shirt off, only breaking the kiss twice to hear America’s gasps for breath. He discarded the clothing somewhere on the bed behind him and his hands pressed back over America’s hips. His thumb stroked over fabric.

England tore away from the kiss with a wet sound of parting. His mouth fell to America’s jaw instead, licking, nipping at the space beneath his ear. America’s head turned to allow better access, his breaths coming fast. Below, England started a slow grind of his hips. He rocked forward, up against America’s ass, and dragged America’s hips to meet him.

“Shit,” America panted. His knees bent, feet scrambling for leverage against the mattress. England dragged him in again, bit the crook of his neck, and America’s voice broke into a sharp series of breaths.

“Mhm.” England’s hum vibrated against America’s throat. Heat pooled in his stomach; it made his hips grind harder, his pants feel tighter. He closed one hand around America’s wrist, and his other tugged away the last of America’s clothing. It tangled around America’s thighs, and the backs of England’s fingers grazed skin.

America shuddered at the sudden rush of air against him. This close, England felt the shivers race all the way through him. Carefully, he ghosted his fingers over America’s cock to see if it would cause the same reaction. America’s breath caught. England bit him to help him expel it again. At the same time, he rubbed his thumb over the head of America’s cock. The resulting sound was a mix between a gasp and groan.

England ground up against him. His fingers closed lightly over America’s length, feeling the heat of him, the smooth curve of his skin. America rocked into his hand, only slightly, and England swallowed a low sound. He squeezed once, gently, and listened to America’s gasp.

He pressed kisses into America’s neck while he worked. He tasted the skin, nipped at the sensitive spots that made America groan loudest. He licked along the join of America’s shoulder, teased his cock with one long stroke. Then, while America was still catching his breath, he bit down. Sucked.

He was pleased by the high lilt of America’s voice, sucked again, until he realized America was saying something. He opened his mouth on a wet sound, instinctively looked to the crimson mark on America’s neck. Something hot tightened in his groin. Marks. Yes. He wanted to mark America as his own. He wanted—

“Hey, England?” America’s voice was weak, breathy. All at once, though, it was the only thing England heard; it sounded even louder than the rush of desire in his mind. “I don’t…think I like that. Being marked up. Makes me feel like I’m being _owned_ or…something.”

England watched his face, even though America wouldn’t look back at him. Disappointment formed a barb in his gut, but he pushed the feeling away. America. This was about America. He cupped a hand behind his ear and, once America returned his gaze, he kissed his cheek. “You won’t be marked, then. Of course.”

The traces of a smile lit America’s face. That was all the payment England needed. He’d made a sacrifice— _No marking, no claiming_ —but the quiet “Thanks,” he received made it worth it. He kept his kisses light, after that.

Those kisses trailed down America’s chest. He stopped to suck at each of America’s nipples, pleased that they still felt stiff in his mouth. He nipped at his ribs, kissed the ridge of his hips. For an instant, while he was licking his way down from America’s bellybutton, a thought struck him. _Mark him here. He won’t see if you leave it low. It was simply an accident, you can say_. The temptation warmed his face, made his tongue feel thick in his mouth, but he kept moving. England was a man of his word, when it suited him. He bit lightly at America’s hip before dipping lower.

Breath gusted warm over America’s cock. England watched it twitch, listened as America struggled to keep quiet. He closed his hand around it, one finger at a time, examining America’s face. America glanced down at the same time. Blue eyes met green, then darted away. England smiled to himself, then leaned in so America could feel the curve of his lips against his skin.

“America?” he said, and his tongue flicked over the head of him. America twitched away until England remembered to hold him still.

“This is rough.” America’s voice was thick with longing. His hips wriggled in England’s hands, so he tightened his grip.

“Hardly.”

His tongue swirled over America’s tip. Again. A jagged hitch of breath sounded from above. England savored it, then closed his mouth over America’s skin and sucked. His tongue worked around the length of him. He bobbed his head down, then up, and down again. Each time, he took America deeper, tracing the shape of him, growing familiar with the weight pressed against his tongue. He licked the underside of America’s cock, sucking on an upstroke. A ragged groan broke on America’s lips. Despite the hands on his hips, America did manage to grind them upwards, and his cock slid wet over England’s tongue. England shoved him back down again.

“ _Behave_.” England repeated the command from earlier. This time, it elicited a small murmur in the back of America’s throat. Saliva glistened on his cock, and England saw it pulse with a need to be touched. He massaged the head of it, smearing wetness with his thumb. “Now, America?”

“ _What?_ ” It was more of an impatient whine than anything. England tapped the pad of his thumb against him, waiting for a proper response. Threads of spit hung between his hand and America’s skin. “It’s good. Okay? It’s good. Just…”

“Hand me that oil.”

“Ha…”

What America found funny, England did not know, did not care to know. He held out his free hand, the other still tracing sloppy circles over America’s cock, and waited for America to fumble the bottle off the nightstand. His mouth was open, like he wanted to say things. _Ask_ things, probably. In the end, he just licked his lips, flashed a crooked smile, and handed the bottle over. Something warm spread through England’s chest when he accepted it; America knew he was in good hands. He trusted England to take care of him. So that was precisely what he’d do.

His lips returned to America’s cock. He traced jerky lines with his tongue, clung to every pulse that twitched beneath his skin. He slackened his jaw, tried to take America all the way down, but found that he couldn’t. His little colony really was anything _but_. He came back up, sucking at the sensitive head. _That_ was the spot that quickened America’s breathing, besides. He _liked_ it there. England groaned, let the vibrations thrum through America’s body. His mouth tingled when a bead of pre-come dripped inside. He caught it with his tongue, smeared it over America’s length. An ache spread deep beneath his own belt, until he unfastened it to make room.

He hated pulling his mouth away from America’s skin. America hated it more. Blue eyes widened down at him, begging in all but words. England shivered at that look. He covered it up by turning his attention to the bottle of oil. While his mouth was free, he took the opportunity to say, “America?”

America made a noise. “I want you to, just, keep touching me.”

“You like it when I touch you?”

“God,” America breathed another shaky laugh. “Yeah. I like it. Don’t stop?”

“Keep _being_ good,” England said. “And I’ll make you _feel_ very good.”

America behaving was a rarity. England was only proud to have discovered how to make him do it. He disrobed America entirely, tossing the last of his clothing onto the floor. He dribbled some oil into his hand. It slicked between his fingers, made his heart race with anticipation. He pressed another kiss to America’s tip. Then, his fingers brushed, wet, down the cleft of America’s ass.

“ _Oh._ ” America drew his knees up to either side of England’s head. He rocked his hips forward, but England kept his hand where it was, tracing idle circles. The heat of America’s body pulsed over his palm. It stirred something raw in his core.

England’s eyes didn’t leave America’s face. He watched as he pressed the tip of his middle finger inward. Heat closed tight and slick around him. A lilting sigh trembled past America’s lips. England’s face grew hot. He stroked his way inside, pumping slowly with a single finger. In and out, and _deeper_. He was attentive to every jerk, every hitch in America’s breathing, until he’d sheathed his finger fully inside. He wriggled it slowly, back and forth.

“America…” He kissed the head of America’s cock. By now, it shone white with pre-come, twitching whenever England curled his finger just a bit too far.

“Good,” America said on a breath. “I like that.”

“Have you ever had it like this?” England withdrew his finger before thrusting it back inside. America’s yelp made him smirk. “Ever done it to yourself?”

“Done it to…” America steadied his breath, worked to gather his thoughts. “No. No, I… Nothing like this.”

“Ah.” This time, when England withdrew, he edged back inside with two fingers. America stretched around him with a breathy curse. The ache in England’s belly blossomed into something electric. “From now on, when you do, I want you to think of this. Think of me.”

“Uh huh.” America opened his legs wider, a silent permission. England smiled to himself, pushed both fingers in deep, and withdrew before the groan finished breaking on America’s tongue.

America liked it when he curled his fingers up, so he did. He established a steady rhythm, pushing two fingers in, curling them up, and twisting as he retreated. Once, he hooked his fingers in, and America clenched around him, groaning low.

“ _Fuck_.” America’s stomach muscles tensed, then rose on several breaths. “That. Do that again.”

“Mm.” England pushed back _in_. Heat coiled hard around his fingers, spasmed when he brushed against a sensitive bundle of nerves. America whined. His own fingers curled into the sheets, and England’s cock stirred. He was the one doing this. He was the cause of America’s pleasure, of his broken whimpers and sighs. He nudged America’s prostate once more, watched as a pearl of come trickled down his length.

England pushed in with three fingers. America’s mouth opened on a groan. His fingers curled tighter, balling the sheets in his fists. The groan lilted off into a whimper. Until England pushed in again. And again. Each time, America cried out, and each time, his voice broke when England hit that _spot_.

“C’mere,” America said, voice strained. His face was bright with a scarlet flush, his eyes glazed with want. “Come up here. C’mon.”

Something tightened in England’s groin. He withdrew his fingers slowly, one at a time, and watched America bite his lip as he went. He licked his own lips, considering. “You want me.”

“ _Yes_ , just—”

America sat up suddenly. One of his hands curled in the back of England’s hair. The other tangled around his shoulders and dragged him down on top of him when he fell. America’s mouth closed over England’s. His kisses were rushed, sloppy, but they sent sparks through England’s blood all the same. He surprised himself with a groan when America pulled his hair. America pulled away with a grin.

“Did you like that?” He tugged again, experimental, and England bit back another sound. He squeezed America’s cock to retaliate, earning another sharp gasp. America’s hand closed over his wrist. Their eyes met, and a moment passed between them.

Slowly, America started guiding England’s hand over the length of him. His breaths came jagged between parted lips. England’s matched, a shuddering swell that complemented the rush of his heart. He jolted when America palmed the front of his pants.

“Get these off, huh?”

America smiled, a bright, tremulous thing. It didn’t last long.

“Bloody hell.” England’s breath shook. He pushed his lips to America’s, still smiling, and their tongues fumbled over one another. America tugged at his pants again and England batted his hand away to shove them down himself. The fabric tangled around his thighs. He didn’t care. Because then America wrapped a leg around his back, and their bodies came flush together, and the rush of skin intoxicated him.

“Fuck me.” America’s voice, rough against his ear, sent jolts up his spine. His mouth opened to steady his breathing. America’s nipping at his ear didn’t help. “Show me what it’s like, not coming empty. So I can think of you next time.”

“Oh.” England’s throat closed around a stuck noise. He swallowed, thick, and cupped America’s cheek with a palm. America smiled, turned to kiss it. England flushed. That expression, that curious enthusiasm, that _body_ , naked and wanting beneath him… He let go of a shuddering sigh. “That’s what you want?”

America turned, so England’s hand raked through his hair. England felt him shiver. “Think we both want it. So?”

America tugged his hair again. England’s head tilted back into the pull. He sucked a breath through his teeth, and America’s lips fell over his exposed throat. He kissed, bit, _sucked_ , and England groaned low in his throat. He shook America off, nipped at his jaw instead.

“Look at me.”

England’s gaze stayed fixed on America’s own. He dragged a palm up the back of America’s thigh, guiding him until he could shrug that leg over his shoulder. The other leg stayed wrapped around his waist, dragging their bodies in close. He reached down, lined himself up against America’s entrance. His heart leapt when America squirmed, throat already bobbing on unshed sounds.

“America,” he eased in, only the slightest bit. Saw America’s lip quiver. “Tell me how this feels.”

He pushed further inside, feeling the tight stretch of America’s ass, the weight of his cock poking his abdomen. He shrugged America’s leg up higher, angled himself, and thrust in deep. America’s breath hitched, then shivered on an exhale.

“God,” America hissed a low breath. His heel dug into the small of England’s back, caging him. “You’re filling me up. It feels nice. I’ve never… It’s _thick_.”

England’s chuckle rolled deep in his throat. When he opened his mouth, his own breath withered there. “Keep looking at me.”

He started slow. He withdrew almost completely before pushing back inside on a long stroke. America seemed to take his challenge well. He watched England’s eyes, determination mingling alongside pleasure. Little noises built in his throat, but he swallowed them behind trembling lips. England braced an arm against the mattress, laced his fingers through the ends of America’s hair. His other arm wrapped around America’s lower back, keeping him close, pulling him in with every thrust. He kissed him once, and tore his mouth away with a rough thrust of the hips.

“ _Fuck_.” America tossed his head back. His teeth flashed. Then, he remembered his instructions and tried to look back at him, dazed by sensation.

England didn’t give him time to recover. He picked up a steadier pace, fucked him with quick, deep thrusts. America’s groans devolved into a string of broken vowels. He rocked his hips up against England’s. They found a good rhythm together, skin slapping light against skin. Heat flooded England’s cock, spread throughout the rest of his body. It felt _good_. Even better, he was making America feel good too. The thought made him groan.

“Touch me,” America said, urgent. His nails curled into the back of England’s neck. “Rub my dick.”

England obeyed. A startled exclamation left him when he felt how wet America was. “You’re a bloody mess,” he grumbled against America’s ear. Streaks of pre-come slicked his palm while he jerked him. America’s voice broke on a sob of air.

“Keep fucking me. Deep, like that.” America’s brows twisted high on his forehead. His voice was shredded into little whines and pleas. “God, yes.”

“Precious,” England gasped. He angled himself again, rocking up into America’s prostate. America’s ass tightened around him, squeezing, and England’s hand tangled in his hair. Pre-come leaked from him, sticky and hot. He pushed his face into the crook of America’s neck. “God…”

“England… Oh, fuck. _Fuck_.” America moaned. His hips jerked upwards, and England felt something warm gush against his skin. “I’m coming—England, _please_.”

He begged. America _begged_ for him. England’s mouth opened on a dry gasp. He grabbed America’s hair, pulled himself up to look at his face. He wanted to see it: The flicker of desperation in blue eyes. The spit shining on his lips. The pleasure tightening his features. It was all so _beautiful_.

“Come for me. _Now_.”

America cried out when he came. It gushed over England’s pelvis, painted the back of his hand. It was his name, though—That desperate, “England, oh god, England”—that pushed him over the edge. England spilled inside of America, riding out fluid waves of ecstasy with a moan. He buckled against him, muffling his sounds in a pillow. America still shuddered around him.

They spent a good minute catching their breath. It was the only sound in the room, except the rustling of bedsheets when America dropped his leg off of England’s shoulder. He felt America tracing little patterns into his back; he was making it so difficult to get his heart beating normal again.

“Well.” England pushed himself onto his elbows. He didn’t have a handkerchief handy, so he wiped his hand on the quilt. “Our tea is certainly cold by now.”

America laughed, breathless. “You really can’t wait until you’re, like, not inside of me anymore to talk about tea?” He tugged lightly at England’s hair. “We’ll make more.”

“That’s not the only thing we’ll do more of, I hope.”

America was in the middle of untangling himself from England’s body when he met his eyes again. They crinkled with his smile. “’Course not.”

“Good.”

Another moment passed between them. America punctuated the silence with a kiss and nudged at England’s shoulder. He sighed. “You know, I could lay like this with you forever.”

“Ditto,” America said. “But I’m starving and covered in come, so we gotta get a move on.”

England snorted appreciatively. “Alright, very well.”

He dragged his hips backwards. America inhaled sharply as he withdrew, leaving him empty. England held on to that final sound. At least, he thought, there’d be more in the future. He could have his America whenever they so chose.

“Oh,” England sat up, eyes cast to a vanity looking glass. He touched the little red patch on his neck. “I see. You can leave them on me, but heaven forbid I mark you at all.”

America grinned. The mischief was back in his eyes; set against the rosy flush of his skin, the blue only looked brighter. “I’m surprised I don’t have one on my dick, with all the sucking you were doing down there.”

England scoffed. “Oh, behave.”

America shivered. “You can’t say that to me, just, casually now.” He laughed and scooped his pants off the floor. “I’m gonna have _associations_.”

England kept his smile to himself when America staggered to his feet. He moved to help steady him. A hand closed around his wrist. “Why don’t we get washed up? Then we’ll have some tea.”

“And dinner?”

“And dinner.”

“And you’re not cooking it?”

England drew up short, affronted. “And just what’s wrong with my cooking?”

“Nothing, England.” America caught his hand, and like that, England forgot the insult. “Just… Lemme lean on you a sec, okay? My legs are wobbly.”

England’s smile returned. He tucked an arm around America’s waist and propped up on his toes to kiss his head. “All too happy to help.”


End file.
